wooden spoon tapping on the rim of the dutch oven
sharp raps in time to the aching, self-destructive nihilism of Justin Townes Earle soaring from the bluetooth speaker
he's singing about Lady Day in her "white dress, white shoes, white gardenias"
our Queens apartment sticky in summer heat and aerosolized schmaltz
seared chicken thighs fatty and rich
steeped in garlic and onion
sweating down in olive oil and butter
burgundy and stock
intertwined like your fingers
your arms around my waist from behind while I stir a nascent sauce piquant
your body pressed into mine
swaying softly to wistfully oozed remembrances of a woman JT never met
and reminders that she left her heart in Baltimore 'cuz she couldn't stop the bleedin'
warmth and sweat matting shirt to skin
your cheek rests mid-back
and while I can’t see your face,
I know your eyes are softly closed, lips curled in peaceful rest
tomato, bay leaf, and red pepper undulating
clenching, twirling, caressing, engulfing, and finally releasing
a kizomba no less passionate than our own
delicately pinching kosher salt between my fingertips to cascade down down down
grinding warm peppercorn into the foaming pungency below
a tickle of crushed pepper heightens the senses
the golden tan thighs glistening with briny heat
you lick the sauce from my fingertip, pretending I offered it for your seasoning palate
perfection is, as he swoons, apparent if ineffable:
you might not know her now, but you'll know her when you see her
white dress, white shoes, white gardenias
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